


The Epicurean Fête

by Donna_Immaculata



Category: 17th Century CE RPF, DUMAS Alexandre - Works, Le Vicomte de Bragelonne - Alexandre Dumas, d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Epistolary, Historical Inaccuracy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 21:06:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11449050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Donna_Immaculata/pseuds/Donna_Immaculata
Summary: M. Fouquet throws a party. Everybody comes.





	The Epicurean Fête

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElDiablito_SF](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElDiablito_SF/gifts).



> Happy birthday, El! This was supposed to be a crossover with Versailles, but I ended up not using any Versailles elements, except the visuals and the wonky timeline. I don’t know when this is set okay! At some point when they’re all of fuckable age.

To Her Grace, the Duchess Sophia of Hanover, From Elisabeth Charlotte, Duchesse d’Orléans, in Vaux

I trust Euer Liebden will forgive me for not having written sooner, but alas my duties as wife to the king’s brother are keeping me busy. Monsieur is the best man in the world; we rub along well enough, and his contrefaict truly is second to none. It is unfortunate that he was born a Frenchman, for I believe he has a good heart and, had he not been led astray, he might have been a good husband. As it is, we live in a world that has not known punishment ever since the rain of fire and sulphur came down on Sodom and Gomorrah. The knightly band is relentless in their attacks against my person, and I have to say that they never fail: whatever diabolical assault they come up with, they succeed. I should much rather live in a place where ghosts and evil spirits reign, for they would not be granted any power over me by God.

That cursed knight’s ghosts, alas, are of flesh and blood, and the King and Monsieur permit them to commit any malicious acts they can think of, as I witness every day. In spite of the fact that the knight debauches the big man’s son and speaks in odious tones about his daughter, not to mention that he persecutes me every day, nothing is ever done, and he lives a better life than many others whose path through life is a quiet one. I wish with all my heart God may grant Euer Liebden’s wish that Lucifer whisks him away into his realm. And because I wouldn’t like the knight to undertake such a journey by his lonesome self, I’d give him the marquis d’Effiat for a travel companion. But I fear that the devil will not fetch the entire cabale. All I know is that they roister unabashed, and I believe that rather than fetching them to hell, Lucifer will make his home in them. They are all possessed.

But I shall follow Euer Liebden’s advice and attempt to keep my esprit au dessus de cela. I shall find solace in the fact that we are currently on a sojourn in Vaux, as guests of M. Fouquet, and that I don’t have to encounter that old rompompel, La Maintenon, every night at the card table. This is the first time I partook in one of M. Fouquet fêtes, and I must say his Epicurean friends bear a striking resemblance to the honnêteté in Versailles, as far as their pleasures are concerned.

I was introduced to a young man with the profile of a Roman god and hands and feet as small as those of a fifteen-year-old boy. He is the vicomte de Bragelonne, a friend of the comte de Guiche, which surprised me greatly, for he is the most guileless creature I met since my coming to France; whereas de Guiche shares the favour and good graces of Monsieur with the knight of Lothringen, who always smiles at him most affectionately even though he can’t endure him. Bragelonne had followed de Guiche into Monsieur’s apartments and found my husband engaged in admiring himself in the glass and rouging his face. In a corner of the cabinet, Lorene was extended full length upon some cushions, having just had his long hair curled, with which he was playing in the same manner a woman would have done.

The knight, who never passes up the chance of insulting me, began to goad de Guiche, asking him if he found ‘Madame better looking as a woman than Monsieur was as a man’.

“Your highness is exceedingly happy to have so charming a bride,” Bragelonne said.

Lorene burst out laughing. “Monsieur is the fairest of them all, admit it!” he said, rose to his feet and stalked over to my husband. His arms wrapped around Monsieur’s chest, he kissed him on top of his head and mouthed “Mignonette” at him in the glass. Bragelonne, who was watching them with a fond smile, turned to me and spoke of the gift of friendship.

“It must be wonderful, Madame, to know that your husband is surrounded by such dedicated companions, who will always stand by him,” he said. Meanwhile, de Guiche was suffering great pangs, as he either had to agree with Lorene or claim that Monsieur’s German wife was the fairer one.

“It is heartwarming to see that the chevalier de Lorraine is so tenderly dedicated to Monsieur,” Bragelonne continued, as the knight began to kiss my husband’s cheek and neck. From where we were seated, Bragelonne and I could not see what Lorene’s hand was doing, but I am confident that my suspicion as to its path and destination is correct. “I myself am fortunate enough to call the comte de Guiche a bosom friend, whose friendship sustained me through the darkest times of my life.”

“Indeed!” I had to force myself to turn away from the lewd display of my husband’s and Lorene’s debauchery. As for Bragelonne, I had never yet spotted him in the throng of favourites surrounding Monsieur, not had I ever seen him near Monsieur’s chambers. It pains me from the very bottom of my soul that I can’t tell Euer Liebden everything that I’d ever observed, for neither would I dare entrust my epistles to the post, nor would I wish to offend your German sensibilities by relating the sordid tales of French depravity in great detail. Here, such matters are freely spoken of, and naturalia non sunt turpia to the French, who discuss them often and with great relish. Even the Queen, pious and reticent as she is, has been heard speaking of Mlle Catherine[1] at the dinner table in front of the menfolk.

Euer Liebden will understand that my heart bleeds and I have to release some of the black humours that plague and poison my insides by putting them into words. De Guiche, who is one of my husband’s favourites, joined him and the knight at the dressing table and sank to his knees before Monsieur, as if asking for a blessing. He was concealed from view by Lorene, who stood with his back to us and his hands on Monsieur, but I could see his back and it didn’t take long until – met verlöff, met verlöff – it began to move up and down like that of a man riding a horse. I expected Bragelonne to join them likewise, but he remained with me and, with a melancholy smile on his handsome face, related the story of his great love and passion for – _a WOMAN_!

I confess, Euer Liebden, that my countenance deserted me and je bayais aux corneilles, as the French say for ‘purveying fatwood holders’[2]. The knight, whose attention was momentarily diverted from my husband, looked at me in the glass and smiled, for he knew very well that nothing displeases Monsieur more than to show any interest in ladies. Here in Vaux, Monsieur is keener on boys than ever before, he even picks lackeys from the antechambers. His favourites are courted by the Epicureans, and together they descend to unimaginable depths of depravity.

It appeared that Bragelonne, despite his association with de Guiche, did not belong to the dissipated circle. He was telling me about the young lady who’s been his affianced ever since she was seven years old. “How old were you, Monsieur?” I inquired, attempting to keep his attention away from the two devils pleasuring my husband. “Fifteen,” he said with a sigh. Not even the muffled moans and titters, so very much like the sounds a woman would make, distracted him from his tale of woe. When he said that his beloved was Louise de La Vallière, I couldn’t help but laugh. He spoke about her as if he didn’t know that she was the King’s mistress who had five children by him before she retired to the convent.

Lorene, whose satirical humour makes him greatly attuned to anything even vaguely scandalous, let go of Monsieur’s hair and turned to us, momentarily granting me a view of my husband’s expression in the glass and of de Guiche on his knees.

“Ah yes, La Vallière!” he said with a wicked grin. “A charming girl, slightly lame.”

Next to me, Bragelonne stiffened, but at that point I was rather distracted by the sight of Monsieur’s expression of bliss as de Guiche brought the favour he was bestowing between his legs to completion.

“Don’t échauffer yourself, Bragelonne,” Lorene said affably and with eyes that always glitter with lewd insinuations. “There are some very characteristic and ingenious Latin axioms about lame ladies.”

Bragelonne was rising from his seat, but de Guiche was quicker. He stood up, wiped his mouth and stepped away from my husband to pacify the two bristling cockerels. At that moment the door opened and the Captain of the Musketeers of the Guard came in. He is a Gascon and very short, but makes up for his lack in height with a magnificent moustache – a prime specimen of the quarrelsome Gallus. I have often heard Monsieur laugh at his Gascon patois, for nothing amuses the French more than when a man butchers their language in a way they consider exceedingly crude. He brought a message from M. Fouquet, and Lorene resumed his place beside Monsieur, for Monsieur had permitted him to acquire an ascendency over himself that exempted Lorene from any observance of etiquette towards him. As the knight accompanied Monsieur outside, he insinuated a few drops of the venom he had collected. I’m afraid that the warm attachment my husband has for Lorene is to a great extent due to the latter’s very cheerful disposition, even when his remarks are mostly full of malice. Monsieur also informed me once that Lorene is never at a loss how to while the time away, which I am more than ready to believe, having seen his particular method of doing away with ennui on many occasions.

Lorene gave me a withering look and said that nobody at the fête is in grand habitat. All women are débraillé, and it filled me with revulsion; one can all but find their navels. They look like they came straight from the madhouse; and if they’d done it on purpose to make themselves look vile, the effect couldn’t have been more disgusting. It doesn’t surprise me that the menfolk despise the women and love each other. The women are despicable creatures with their drink and their tobacco that makes them stink.

But if I could look into their hearts, I might see that they do it on purpose to keep the men away. The fact that the unwedded state is becoming à la mode might be due to women getting smarter and preferring to live on their own, rather than choosing a lord and master who often turns into a tyrant. As far as I’m concerned, it is much better to be mocked as a spinster than pitied as a married woman. This is also the reason, I think, why the number of divorces is rising in Paris.

After he had delivered his message to Monsieur, the captain approached Bragelonne, embraced him like an old friend and told him that there was someone waiting for him in the antechamber. And indeed, as we passed through the door, we beheld Monsieur in conversation with two gentlemen. I recognised the fine smooth skin and warlike air of the one, but his costume confused me, for the last time I saw him he was shrouded in the vestments of a bishop. It was indeed His Excellency the Bishop of Vannes, and he too greeted Bragelonne with much friendship. But it was the other man, the comte de la Fère, to whom Bragelonne turned with the greatest, most tender affection. For a moment, I was convinced that he was to Bragelonne what Monsieur was to Lorene, but then I saw the resemblance between the two and understood that they were father and son.

It didn’t take me long to understand that it was the Bishop of Vannes who was to the comte de la Fère what Monsieur was to Lorene. As we passed from room to room, their postures, the way they fell in step with each other, mirrored those of my husband and the knight. It amazed me more than ever that Bragelonne was oblivious to the nature of de Guiche’s devotion to Monsieur, if his own father entertained a very similar friendship with another man.

I will spare Euer Liebden the description of the Epicurean frivolities; but even the gardens, where I attempted to escape, were full of degeneracies. At last, I came across a quiet spot; I wasn’t the first one to find it, however. Behind a bush was a figure whom I knew as Lorene, murmuring compliments in that voice that is like poisoned honey. His companion, to my surprise, was the comte de la Fère. The apple never falls far from the tree, as they say, but in this case they couldn’t be more wrong, for the tree appeared well-versed in the kind of gallantry that was expected on such occasions, while the apple was moping all on his own, last I saw him, while the worm of despondency gnawed away at him. (I heard the next day that the Duchesse de Chevreuse is rumoured to be Bragelonne's mother, but that I cannot believe, as the duchesse, by all accounts, was a woman of strong personality and sparkling wit.)

“Have you lured me here to tell me this, chevalier?” the comte was saying with a note of amusement vibrating in his velvety voice. “I will not be a plaything of your caprice. It is enough that I let my dear old friend, the Bishop of Vannes, talk me into attending M. Fouquet festivities.”

“Ah yes, the Bishop of Vannes!” the knight exclaimed. “Now there is a man who’s as ambitious as you are reclusive, comte. We never see you at court, and everybody who knows you agrees that you deprive it of its brightest ornament – including the king’s brother, whom I heard talk very highly of you once or twice. I believe you did Anne of Austria a great favour once.”

“That was in a different life,” the comte said. “I am quite the changed man.”

“Not so changed, surely. You don’t look a day older than thirty-five, monsieur.”

The comte smiled. “Your pretty flattery is wasted on me, chevalier.”

“Is it? I find that flattery usually clears the path to my desired destination quite effectively.” I perceived a rustle and a gasp, and experience told me that Lorene’s hand had indeed found its desired destination. There was the sound of scuffling as bodies collided and rubbed against each other, but the expected noises of animal pleasure did not come; instead, a cry of pain, and to my satisfaction I saw Lorene stumble back and hit his head on a tree trunk.

“You are fortunate, monsieur, that honour forbids me to draw my sword against you while I am guest in M. Fouquet’s house, for the scandal would inconvenience my friend the Bishop of Vannes. If you wish to reiterate the encounter, however, I shall be pleased to meet you in Paris.”

If he thought he’d chastised Lorene, the comte was sadly mistaken; the devilish brazenness was unabashed. “I didn’t take you for a prude, comte,” the knight said, grinning like the dog he is. “The good bishop didn’t bring you along so that you could play the sulking wallflower, not when your bastard fills that role so well.”

A slap reverberated through the air and Lorene threw his head back as the comte’s glove left a sting across his face. “Choose a place, monsieur, and quick,” the comte de la Fère said with icy calm. “I wouldn’t wish to inconvenience you by unnecessarily prolonging your wait for death.”

To my great chagrin, the pleasant scene was interrupted by the arrival of Monsieur and the Bishop of Vannes, who emerged from the shrubbery like two sileni of the thiasos. A wreath of flowers sat askew on Monsieur’s head, while His Excellency wore a Spanish mantilla. It struck me how alike they appeared, with skin like smooth ivory and luscious hair piled in elaborate curls.

“We were looking for the nymphs of Vaux, of whose beauty and grace we have heard so much,” Monsieur said. “But all we find are satyrs.”

He stood by Lorene’s side and took his arm in a firm grip. “Don’t kill him, monsieur,” he said. “Slap him again.” He pulled off one of his gloves and handed it to the comte de la Fère. “Such base punishment is more shameful than death at the hands of a gentleman.”

“Philippe!” the knight exclaimed in horror, forgoing all etiquette in his shock.

“Silence!” My husband demanded. “By insulting a nobleman like the comte de la Fère, you bring dishonour on yourself and on me.”

“You could have him flogged, Your Highness.” The bishop’s voice was soft like the summer breeze, yet it sent shivers down everybody’s spine like a gust of wintry air. He pulled a lace handkerchief from his bodice and handed it to the comte, who wiped his hands as if even the slightest contact with Lorene had sullied them.

“What do you suggest, Your Excellency?” Monsieur asked.

“A discipline cord is quickly procured,” the bishop said. “It is an excellent remedy for sinful thoughts, as it focuses the mind on the flesh.”

“That is your opinion as a man of the Church?”

“Decidedly.”

“Well then, chevalier,” Monsieur said to the knight who was seething in his grip. “You heard the good bishop. You shall be chastised most severely tonight.”

Another sharp slap sounded through the night air; the comte de la Fère had struck Lorene with my husband’s glove and handed it back to its owner, who gazed at him thoughtfully. “Perhaps the comte would like to apply the castigation?”

For the briefest of moments, the comte exchanged a glance with the bishop, and when he nodded his assent at my husband, a beatific smile spread across his handsome and noble features. It made me laugh when Monsieur pulled Lorene with him like a wayward bitch. The bishop grasped the comte’s arm. “Are you sure, Athos?” he said in a voice that was low and serious and full of the same tenderness that I often saw reflected on Monsieur’s face when he looked at Lorene.

I staggered back in surprise when the comte pulled his excellency close and kissed him on the mouth with ardent fervour. “I came here with you, didn’t I?” he said, moving his hand around the bishop’s corseted waist. “For better or worse, Aramis.”

This is, Euer Liebden, a faithful account of what I witnessed here in Vaux, and I rather regret that I never had the chance to watch the knight getting soundly chastised, for I believe that the strength of the comte de la Fère’s arm is considerable and that he wielded the discipline cord with great panache, whereas the Bishop of Vannes strikes me as a man of great invention in matters of punishment. I didn’t see Monsieur until médianoche, and when I finally beheld him, his skin glowed under the rouge and his eyes glittered like stars, which I believe is due to the generous application of deadly nightshade, a fashion that the French revel in, while my German heart rejects it as another frivolity of the debauched.

Now that I have given Euer Liebden numerous examples of the affaires that go on here, Euer Liebden will believe me that it is for lack of time that I haven’t written sooner, and not because I no longer remember my dearest aunt. No! Your Liselotte is neither forgetful nor ungrateful, and if my silence is too long and I am kept from writing by the scum that surrounds me, I do think of Euer Liebden most tenderly.

* * *

 

[1] Menstruation

[2] A literary translation of the excellent and sadly untranslatable German idiom meaning “to gawk/gape”.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannibalised Liselotte’s letters to her aunt Sophia of Hanover, and Dumas’ Vicomte de Bragelonne for this.


End file.
